


What is Left

by canyouseemyspark



Series: Dorne [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3944386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canyouseemyspark/pseuds/canyouseemyspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"i was happier then. or was that i? or am i now i? can’t bring back time. like holding water in your hand. would you go back to then? just beginning then. would you?"</i><br/> <br/>Rhaegar sits on the throne in King's Landing with Aegon as his heir and Elia as his queen. While Robert's Rebellion was averted, consequences of the Rhaegar's disappearance with Lyanna and her later marriage to Robert Baratheon curdle beneath the surface and the rage of the Martells and the Northerners sits on a knife's edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a story a while back called Spoils of War focusing on the younger cast of characters (Dany, Jon, etc) in an AU where Rhaegar was king. This will take place along similar lines except with a different regional focus. Like a lot of what I've been writing lately, this is going to be highly experimental (pairings and characters I haven't written before, situations I haven't explored) so feedback is highly appreciated!

She is a young child when she first comes to Dorne, had recently passed her seventh nameday but looked even younger than that, short of height and with a child’s roundness to her body. Quentyn remembers a single silver braid that fell halfway down her back, small curls framing her face and a blue dress with a silver lining but only because it reminded him of the stars he would count with his mother in the skies above the Water Gardens, before she left. He could only murmur a few words of welcome to her, made shy by the presence of all the men in the room – Lord Jon Connington and the king’s men on one side while his father, crabs, swordfish, stars, seahorses, while his uncle and a retinue of Dornish lords and ladies stood in the other. 

Arianne was more confident, fifteen years to the Daenerys’ seven after all, and was the first one to step forward, leaving Quentyn to listen dumbly as she recited sweet words of harmony and bonds of blood and love. The Targaryen princess had feigned a smile then, kept that smile on her face through the feast that came afterwards, only faltered when her companions left Sunspear, Arianne to take Daenerys’ place in King’s Landing and Daenerys to take hers in Dorne.

He remembers little of it, only a silver braid and the sky and his sister's face as she turned around on her horse, going westward and laughing, hair swinging, remembers only the beating of his own heart.


	2. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From princess to servant

Rhaenys, always thinking herself the oldest and the wisest, was the one to explain to Dany what it meant to get married. The word “marriage” had hovered in Dany’s world for most of her life but it was only some abstract thing to her child’s mind, incomprehensible and irrelevant. Rhaenys though, four years older than Daenerys and having recently been allowed to move from the nursery to her own bedchambers, lushly decorated and with all her own dolls, claimed she knew everything about it.

“You hold hands and go through the sept,” She had explained, in a conspiratorial tone, mischief shining in her hazel eyes, “Then there is a big feast and you can eat all the sweets you want. Afterwards, the knights take your gown off and put you in the bed with your husband.”

Aegon and Dany had giggled at that, trying to stifle their laughter behind their hands, but Rhaenys only rolled her eyes, a gesture she had recently learned and enjoyed using immensely.

“The wife and husband kiss each other in their bed without their smallclothes,” She’d explained, exasperated, “That’s how you make a babe.”

Aegon giggled even more at that but Dany only paled. They had practiced kissing before, when no one else was around, pushing their lips against each other, mimicking the lords and ladies they had seen at court. It was their secret, but Dany hadn’t known it could make her have a babe.

“But I don’t want one.” 

Women died having babes, she knew.

Rhaenys scoffed, “You won’t have a babe, silly. That only happens when you find blood in your bed.”

Dany had been confused by that but didn’t dare admit it, searched her bed for blood every morning and every night before she left for Dorne, mollified when there was only spotless cream silk beneath her, satisfied that Rhaenys had been proven a liar once again. And made sure never to kiss Aegon again, just in case.

Rhaegar’s explanation of the life awaiting Dany in Dorne was much less shocking and much more somber. 

She knew it was to be a special day when he let her climb into his lap, an act he had deemed her “too old” to do after her fifth nameday, let her wind her arms around his neck, cradling her as though she was a child. She remembered the smell of his solar, the smell of books, the smell of her brother.

He said nothing of kisses, only of duty, a word more bitter, even to a child.

“Do you remember what I have told you about the duties of a cupbearer?” He asked, and his eyes did not seem so far away.

“I am to serve Prince Doran without complaint and to heed all his commands,” She recited, understanding little of what she spoke, words that had been drilled into her by her septas.

“Precisely,” Rhaegar said, “And you are not to do anything which might trouble him, nor cause him to be unhappy.”

Dany did not misbehave often, less frequently than Rhaenys and Aegon did for certain, but perhaps in Dorne different standards were expected.

“Is Prince Doran like Elia?” She asked.

Elia was kind, sometimes even let Dany sleep beside her and Rhaenys on the nights when storms battered the keep, asked after her wellbeing and always prepared a gift for her nameday. Rhaegar, however, only smiled his sad half-smile at that, put his arms around Dany’s waist and instead of holding her closer only pulled her from his lap, setting her on the ground. 

It had made Dany want to weep, that moment when she felt him pull away, just like she had wanted to weep as she looked back at the Red Keep one last time, as she wanted to weep when she stood in front of Prince Doran for the first time.

But Rhaenys told her princesses should not cry, so instead she glued her eyes to a painted marble tile on the floor of his solar, even as she felt his eyes appraising her, even as she was acutely aware of the eyes of another prince on her, Elia’s younger brother Oberyn. He looked the most like the queen, the same black hair that met at a peak, the same olive skin and the dimple on one cheek but there was something in his eyes that frightened Dany, something like anger, only not quite. 

“Come here, child,” Prince Doran said, his voice quiet and calm.

She stepped forward slowly, watching her own feet move across the ground, counting the steps and looking up only when the prince himself reached out to touch her face and tilt it towards him. He studied her for a moment, before leaning back in his chair.

“You look very much like the king,” He continued, “Though we have not laid our eyes on him for many years.”

Prince Oberyn’s face turned into something that looked like a smile, though it unsettled her, “Nor on our dear niece or nephew. Or even the queen herself.”

Dany did not know if they expected a response from her, and even if they did she did not know what to say, so she only looked somewhere between the two brothers.

It seemed like an eternity before Prince Doran broke the silence, sighing, “Your grace, if you may, would you pour wine for my brother? Perhaps it will calm his nerves.”

He motioned to a flagon resting on a painted table to her right and Dany held the cold handle, pouring the strong-smelling wine into a jeweled chalice. She carried it with both hands to Prince Oberyn, taking careful steps, and when he commented with a smirk that she had careful hands, Dany felt it was no compliment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slow start to the story but I'm trying to lay some groundwork in before the action starts gearing up! :)


	3. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it means to serve and hints of the past

There were tears at first, lonely nights for a child who been raised in the capital and forced to part even from her septas, replaced by a host of Dornish minders. But it is easy for a child to forget, easier still when her days are filled with what Rhaegar had warned her about – duties. 

She was to have been a companion to Prince Doran’s wife, a Norvosi lady she was to serve as a handmaiden to, sleep beside on the nights when her husband did not attend her, help to dress her and to prepare her meals, while spending the afternoons with the prince. But the Norvosi lady had gone back to her home in Essos before Dany had even left King’s Landing. Her betrothed had left as well, to a place called Yronwood Castle where he would be fostered and Dany herself was taken to the Water Gardens with the prince, her chambers placed alongside the prince’s.

She woke before Prince Doran did, thankfully an easy task since the prince did not rise on most days until midday, and after breaking her fast in her rooms would await him in his, standing at his side as he feasted on dates and grapes, drank spiced wine that made her nose itch whenever she was pouring it. She attended him in meetings with members of his household, council sessions that she understood little of and that left her with a headache. In the first few weeks of her arrival she was made to attend him through his afternoon meal, stand beside him as he watched the children play in the shallow pools and fountains of the palace, before he retired to his solar, where she lit the candles, watched as he wrote letters and delivered them to the maester, returning to the solar in time to replace the candles, rearrange the parchment and the quills and inks before returning to her own rooms and sinking into her featherbed.

Dany did not mind it, perhaps because serving Prince Doran seemed almost a mercy compared to serving his brother. Prince Oberyn only came to the Water Gardens every fortnight, but requested Dany’s service every time. She was made to tend to his chambers, something Prince Doran never asked of her, even to change the linens and replace the old rushes. Once she had even had to empty a foul smelling chamber pot and carry soiled clothing. She had seen the bald maester outside the chambers and asked him where she might find the washerwoman and he had paled at that, taken the stinking pile of silks from her with his own hands and sent her to her septa. The next day she had seen the maester whispering in Prince Doran’s ear, pointing to her from across the room, and after that she was never called to serve Prince Oberyn.

Prince Oberyn is also the only one to mention her brother’s name, in a private audience with his brother and though he looks at Dany warily as she stood at the door, waiting to be called, Prince Doran waved him on.

“Arianne writes of the queen,” He continued, his eyes leaving her almost hesitantly, turned to his brother, “The king held a tourney in Arianne’s honor and insisted on the invitation of House Baratheon. The queen was made to write an invitation to Lyanna Stark herself, as the Lady of Storm’s End. Arianne says the court whispered of it for weeks, of how the king stood over Elia, raging and weeping, until she put the words down to the parchment and he saw it safely in the maester’s hands. Whether it is true, she does not know.”

No reaction registered on the older prince’s face, he only asked, “And did Lady Baratheon attend?”

“No,” Prince Oberyn responds, and it is almost as though he hisses the words, “She replied that she was unwell and Lord Stannis was sent in their place.”

“He is their heir, there is no insult in that,” Doran counters, and though the response does not seem to please the younger man Prince Oberyn says nothing, sits silently as though ruminating before rising suddenly, walking past Dany and into the outer chamber. 

She was dismissed for the rest of the day, Prince Doran preferring to dine alone.

It was a few weeks before he had pity on her, perhaps catching her looking at the children splashing in the pools with envy, and allowed her to join them, as he looked on from afar. It was not long before she was included in their games, climbing on each other’s shoulders in the cool waters, chasing each other through the gardens, their hair soaking wet, slapping against their backs, and on the warmest days laying out on the ground, skin against the cool marble. She befriends the sons and daughters of bakers and chambermaids, of lords and ladies, even ones with those same viper eyes, though they still frightened her.

The prince does not say much to her throughout the day and she has little to say to him. It is only once that he calls her from the pools in the midst of her games, has her sit beside him wrapped in a robe embroidered with golden suns.

“The Water Gardens were raised for another princess named Daenerys by a prince of Dorne,” He explained, tearing into a blood orange, pressing a piece into Dany’s hand, “The whole realm knew that the girl loved Daeron’s bastard brother Daemon Blackfyre, and was loved by him in turn, but the king was wise enough to see that the good of thousands much come before the desires of two, even if those two were dear to him.”

It was unsettling to speak of these things, things she did not understand, even as the sounds of the children laughing and splashing filled the air around them. 

Prince Doran continued, “It was that bond that saved us from the carnage that tore through the Seven Kingdoms. She remembered her duty always, to her husband and to Dorne. Do you understand what it means, to do one’s duty?”

Dany said nothing, wrapping the robe tighter around herself, wishing for the pools and the games. She tired of that word, did not understand it, did not wish to hear it.

To her surprise, the prince reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, looked at her with sad eyes.

“Return to the pools, princess,” He said, quietly, “It will not be long before you are forced to play other games, ones with less pleasant companions and a more uncertain end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter but they're going to be getting longer with the time jump (coming soon!). 
> 
> Also, a part of Doran's dialogue here is lifted straight from the books. It was too perfect to resist putting it in.


	4. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

King’s Landing was nothing if not grim. There were balls, surely, and grand feasts and sometimes even tourneys. It was livelier than Sunspear, perched atop a great mass of homes and huts and twisting alleyways that stretch further than anywhere else Arianne had ever seen. It was easy to be taken in, when every day was filled with some new excitement, some new ladies to meet, some new adventure.

The illusion dissipated quickly.

It was not that the festivities ended, or that the court’s attention shifted away from her. It was not even that she missed home, though she does certainly. It was rather that she comes to sense what her uncle had warned her of, something festering in the heart of the court, difficult to identify but there all the same, something rotten that threatened to destroy the very foundation, that stank and wept but that everyone had somewhere turned away from, managed to ignore and sweep away.

She did not see it when she was first presented to court. The royal family looked like a portrait from a storybook, something otherworldly to their features, their faces altogether too perfect, too difficult to turn away from. The king’s appearance did not belie his years; in fact, he was dressed impeccably in embroidered black silk, intricate patterns running through the sleeves and collars, his silver hair tied back in a short braid. Arianne understood then why they called him beautiful. He made a handsome pair with her aunt Elia, dark beauty to the king’s light. Rhaenys and Aegon, though still children, shared their father’s indigo eyes, so dark they were almost blue, but had their mother’s freckled olive skin, with Rhaenys taking her dark hair and Aegon his father’s silver. 

Her aunt Elia had invited her to a private audience in her solar that very same day, embraced her warmly and spoke to her of Dorne, of their family, advised her that though Aegon was young, still so much a boy, it only meant that Arianne would be his sole object of affection, that they could grow all the closer to each other before their wedding, to their own benefit and that of the realm.

Aegon, however, was only a little boy. He was nearly five years Arianne’s junior, more interested in stealing sweets from the kitchens and chasing after his playmates, watching the Kingsguard in the practice yard and wielding his own wooden sword, than anything to do with her. She gifted him toys, sent him treats, sometimes attended his lessons with him and helped him with his reading but she knew it would be many years before he saw her as anything but his cousin. 

Rhaenys is more embracing of Arianne’s presence, eager for a companion, though it only makes Arianne feel like a nursemaid, makes her ache for Tyene and their friendship.

She was allowed to witness only a few of the cracks beneath the surface, rare evenings when Elia and the king sat across the room from each other, the air thick with tension, neither acknowledging the other’s presence. It was intricate, this dance of avoidance they take around each other, rarely appearing in the same room, spending time with their children separately, and though they do share each other’s beds once every moon’s turn, Rhaenys confided in Arianne that her father slept in the outer solar and did not in fact sleep beside the queen.

It was only once that Arianne was able to see it for herself, watch it all bursting, the years of concealed pain, the rotten core of the marriage sliding to the surface.

They were seated at dinner in the queen’s private chambers, celebrating Prince Viserys’ arrival to the capital from Dragonstone. He was a handsome man, of the same age as Arianne, and seemed pleasant enough, though quiet and shy. He and Rhaenys had apparently been quiet a pair when they were younger, causing trouble for their minders, and they fell into a similar rhythm, taken to following each other around. It was near to the end of the meal when Viserys began teasing Rhaenys about suitors, now that she had flowered and ravens were reaching the capital from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, offering their sons for bridegrooms. Rhaenys only blushed and Elia had even seemed to smile for a moment before Aegon joined in, began listing their names, peppered with comments about their appearance and the houses.

The name _Davos Baratheon_ was mentioned, though by Rhaenys or Aegon, Arianne was not sure. The only son of Stannis Baratheon and his Hightower wife, the boy was younger even than Aegon, though it was said that he already had the Baratheon look and hints of his mother’s beauty. He was heir to Storm’s End, besides; with Lyanna Stark seemingly barren and her marriage to Robert Baratheon childish, it was all to pass to Lord Stannis and his children.

“We do not look to the Stormlands, neither for marriage nor for support,” Elia had stated curtly.

The king had seemed as though he did not hear, or did not wish to hear, and Arianne was able to relax for a moment, able to look across the table and give a weak smile to Rhaenys, who had paled.

The relief did not last for long.

“We will consider all matches when the time is right,” The king responded, his voice as smooth and calm as ever, though Arianne could see the tension in his neck, the way he held his fork, hovering over the plate of venison as though frozen.

Even Aegon had seemed to sense the tension then, shrinking into his seat as though he wished he could disappear. Arianne was tempted to do the same.

“Mace Tyrell has written not two fortnights past,” Elia continued, “His son Willas is of age to marry, a handsome lad and kind by all reports, and Rhaenys would be happy at Highgarden.”

Gallingly, the king only repeated his previous statement: “We will consider all matches when the time is right.”

Rhaenys had stepped in then, perhaps foolishly, or perhaps thinking she could calm her parents, salvage the evening as best she could.

“I will not be married for many years,” She said weakly.

Elia reached out and held her daughters hand.

“You will be married into a good home, Rhaenys,” Elia promised, though her eyes did not leave her husband, “One where you will not be hated nor mistreated.”

The king had only responded with, “enough,” muttered so quietly Arianne was not sure if she heard it but it served its purpose, the room falling silent through to the end of the meal.

Rhaenys slept beside her mother that night and the king did not emerge from his solar for days.

King’s Landing was nothing if not grim, but it would not be so when Arianne was queen.

* * *

Their betrothal had not meant much, not when he was young boy far away from home at Yronwood Castle. His princess was a far off thought then, when he was more concerned with swordplay and hawking and going on adventures with Cletus. It was only when he grows slightly older, reaches his thirteenth fourteenth fifteenth years, when the words _paramour_ and _lover_ take on a meaning, when his bolder companions begin to talk of different types of nighttime adventures entirely that he began to think of _her_. 

He had seen the portrait of the first Daenerys hanging in Sunspear and though her beauty was apparent, it was hard to imagine her as a living woman. His Daenerys had the same silver hair, he vaguely remembered, and eyes that were lilac, or perhaps indigo. Perhaps she looked like her namesake now, perhaps her hair sat in heavy curls around her face, her lips red and full, breasts rising through the silks of her gown. Perhaps she kissed like the Drinkwater twins, perhaps she even looked like them, though with a pair of purple eyes and a tangle of silver hair with a woman’s body and a bright smile. The thought of her leaves him twisting in his sheets, waking up to stains on his sheets until he learns to find his release with his own hands.

Gerris and Cletus had taken to teasing him about her, perhaps because they sensed how uncomfortable it made him. Gerris was crude while Cletus was kind, claiming his cousin had seen her at the Water Gardens and termed her the most beautiful woman in the world. Quentyn doubted the validity of these rumors – if that was true, he would have heard of it too – but he enjoyed thinking on it nonetheless.

It was an honor as well, the weight of it sitting heavy on his shoulders. Dorne had allied with the dragons before but this would seal the bond with the Iron Throne, mark it eternal with another double marriage, a Princess of Dorne for the Prince of Dragonstone and a princess of the Iron Throne for the Prince of Dorne. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms cursed them, spoke of snakes that needed their fangs pulled, poison spreading through the capital, and yet as his father explained to him, the king had decided the actions of those he had turned into his enemies were a more lethal threat than whispers of those who might one day become so. It went back to Harrenhal, Quentyn knew, to the king’s madness or lust or love, to the time when everyone spoke of the possibility of a second queen and a Dornish host gathered to defend his aunt’s honor and her children’s claim.

It was a strange thought, his sister as a queen, but then again Quentyn figured his sister thought it queer as well, her brother as heir to Dorne with a Targaryen bride at his side.

The reality of it is altogether different.

He was called back to the Water Gardens not long after gaining his knighthood and it is not the princess he sees first but rather his father, sitting at the end of the gallery leading to the pools, shaded by the blood orange trees. For a moment it felt as though nothing changed, as though he were still a little boy in those very same pools, but his memories of that time were few and fade quickly as soon as he set his eyes on his father.

 _My father is an old man_ , he suddenly realized, _an old sick man_ , fingers red and swollen, his face lined and hair grey.

His mind was the same as ever, however, as he asked after the Yronwoods, his studies and his training. The sun had set by the time Quentyn was finally dismissed, allowed to call on the princess in her rooms.

His father had told it had been a few years since she could no longer play in the Water Gardens, as she grew older. In her role as cupbearer she had passed the afternoons in the pools. When she flowered, she was confined by her septa largely to her rooms, made to read and practice her needlework and her harp. Her duties to Prince Doran had slowly decreased over the years, both because of her age and his father’s worsening gout, though at times they still dined together.

She was a child when he first met her, so young he remembered catching her sucking on her thumb, guiltily pull it away whenever someone’s eyes fell on her. She was a woman when he dreamed of her, with a woman’s body and mouth and hands, all warmth and sweetness. She was something in between when he finally sees her again, sitting underneath a window, wearing a fine gown with hair falling across her shoulders. They had even lined her eyes with kohl, and though it would have perhaps been alluring on another woman it somehow looks strange on her. Though her body had slightly changed, small breasts rising slightly, her frame bigger overall, her body was a mixture of sharp angles, a child’s roundness and an almost-woman’s fullness.

He bowed in front of her and when she reaches out her hand, he kisses it briefly, hopes the tremor he feels is only his imagination.

“There are many who speak of your beauty but now I see for myself how woefully short their accounts fall of the truth,” He recited.

He had practiced those words throughout his journey, but now felt only awkward saying it to her, all the more when she blushed – not as maidens blush but as a child might, turn her eyes away as though he had stripped her naked and she was avoiding his gaze.

“I am glad my lord finds me so,” She murmured, picking at the rubies encrusted in her bracelets.

She spoke with a slight Dornish twang, not as pronounced as his or his father's but there all the same. Quentyn supposed that was a consequence of living in Dorne all these years, of Dornish septas and Dornish maesters. He supposed as well it was his father's doing, something that would please the bannermen, some stamping out of who she was.

The septa sitting in the corner smiled to herself, likely thinking the scene amusing or sweet but Quentyn only felt dumb, wracking his mind for something to say.

“My father says you enjoyed the pools,” He began, “He says you are an able swimmer, and when you rode on my cousin Elia’s shoulders you could bring down the older children.”

She smiled at that, “Only sometimes. Elia preferred to play with her sisters. I would rather swim in the sea.”

It was a childish sort of pride, all innocence and sweetness.

“After we are married, we can tour Dorne if you would like. We can visit the Sea of Dorne and take a boat down the Greenblood,” Quentyn said, “Would you like that?”

She bit her lip and nodded, looking up finally and for one unnerving moment, Quentyn wondered whether his father was correct, whether she did in fact belong in a marriage bed and not in the pools with the rest of the children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the comments! I'm excited to find out what you think of this much longer and (slightly) more action-packed chapter.
> 
> Coming up soon: weddings!


	5. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedded and bedded

Lord Jon Connington came to Sunspear soon after the arrival of Dany and Quentyn in preparation for the wedding. There had been word sent from King’s Landing that a delegation from court would be attending but it was not the Hand of the King they were expecting. Dany could see it by the way the Red Viper had narrowed his eyes as they sat in the Old Palace’s feast hall once the announcement of the arriving lords and ladies was made and not one of them was _Targaryen_.

Dany had been disappointed too, though she did better not to show it. She had received letters from Rhaegar through the years, asking after her health and her studies, whether she was in need of anything, and though he did not discuss his attendance at her wedding she had somehow expected it. His letters were Dany’s favorite, though they were always the shortest. Viserys only talked about himself in his, and his adventures in Dragonstone with the Velaryon and Celtigar lordlings, while Aegon’s came too infrequently and were too short and Rhaenys’ had stopped altogether after her own marriage. Rhaegar’s made her feel remembered, somehow important, even though he was the king and responsible for the welfare of the entire realm while she had not seen the world outside the walls of the Water Gardens for years. 

She had not expected him to come to her wedding, not truly, she told herself, not when he was tasked with such important matters, her own life so inconsequential in comparison, but it was disheartening all the same.

It was more than disheartening for the Martells. Quentyn had paled and looked over at his uncle when Lord Connington stepped forward, reciting platitudes from the crown and well wishes from the royal family, the king and the prince indisposed in the capital and unable to attend. Prince Oberyn’s reply was appropriate, if not curt, but Dany though she could see one of his daughters brusquely leave the hall.

She had been surprised, however, when Lord Connington called on her that evening in her solar, so late that she was already in her bedchambers and had to have her maids redress her and rework her hair before she joined him in her solar.

“Your Grace is well, I presume,” He began, and Dany almost smiled at that, remembering his nature from all those years ago, always gruff, unable or unwilling to waste time with empty pleasantries, “The king wished for me to apologize. These lands are too unstable, the Small Council agreed, as did I and the Lord Commander, that it is not the time for neither the king nor the prince to journey so far from the capital.”

Tywin Lannister, Jon Arryn, Ardrian Celtigar. All old men, all cautious and none of them Dornishment; Dany could understand their counsel. She wondered over Ser Arthur Dayne’s guidance but chose not to ask. _Even if he obliged the Dornishmen’s invitation, he was clearly overruled._

Lord Connington paused for a moment, as if studying her, “I am told you have not been allowed outside the confines of the Water Gardens since your arrival in Dorne.”

“Only until I flowered,” Dany countered, “Prince Doran afforded me every courtesy.”

Lord Connington nearly scoffed, “It may not have been Ghaston Grey but it was a prison nonetheless. Your arrival in the city was proof enough of that.”

It had been a short but tense journey from the Water Gardens, it was true. Dany had ridden alongside Quentyn and their companions, including Prince Doran’s captain of guards Areo Hotah, but once the towers of the Old Palace rose in the distance, she was made to ride within a litter. She could see nothing through the silk curtains as they entered Sunspear, heard only the frantic shuffling of the guards around her and a sea of shouts, in highborn voices and low, so many she could not make out what they were saying, heard only _the king_ and _Prince Aegon_ before she was hurried into the Old Palace. Once out of her litter, she asked Hotah what had occurred but he only said it was some disturbances and nothing to concern her. Quentyn had seemed more disturbed by it, but left her to speak with his uncle.

She wondered how Lord Connington had heard of it.

“Dorne has sinned greatly against the crown but this marriage will forge the peace that reason was not able to,” He continued, “The king trusts that you will do all you must in order to bring the Martells back into the crown’s dominion.”

The Hand of the King took his leave from Dany afterwards, leaving her alone in her chambers, her handmaiden fast asleep, staring up at the elaborate canopy above the bed, puzzling over his words and what it required of her.

It came back to Lyanna Stark, she knew, but beyond that Dany was ignorant. Viserys was the only one to speak to her of it. He had lived through it, lived through so much that Dany had missed, lived with their mother and father, lived in Dragonstone, but spoke of it so infrequently it was almost as though he had been born orphaned too. It had been after the Greyjoy Rebellion when Benjen Stark had come to the capital and he had been ensconced with Rhaegar in his solar for days. A few months after his departure from King’s Landing, he had taken his vows and joined the Night’s Watch. 

Viserys had explained in a conspiratorial tone that Lord Benjen was the brother of Lyanna Stark, the Lady of Storm’s End, and that Rhaegar had loved her and would have married her. _If only we had dragons_ , he had said, _then Rhaegar could do whatever he liked_. Dany understood little of it, young as she was; Elia was kind and beautiful, and she could see no reason why Rhaegar would love another. She would have doubted Viserys had she not tried to confirm the tale with Rhaenys, who reddened and been cross with her for weeks for mentioning it.

Perhaps she should have heeded Viserys words more carefully, but she was only a child of six and did not understand what the scandal of some Northern lady had to do with her.

She was a girl of thirteen now and still did not understand.

* * *

She did not see Lord Connington again until the morning of the wedding. He came to her rooms with her maiden’s cloak, sent from the king and the queen, and for once Dany did not mind how few of words he was nor how dark of spirit. It was enough to run her hands along the black silk, study the red embroidery, a three-headed dragon rising from the darkness. She had nothing to fear, she told herself, not so long as she had the cloak. And once it was gone, once it was replaced by the sun and spear of the Martells, well, what did it matter? She had spent more time in Dorne than she had in King’s Landing, had lived among the Dornishmen, eaten their food, played with their children. _What was there to fear?_

It calmed her for a while, as the maids braided her hair and dressed her, even as she walked through the sept alongside Lord Connington, her cloak weighing heavy on her shoulders. She was even calm through the prayers, calm through the chanting and singing, feeling as though she were watching herself from afar. From somewhere above the sept she watched as a girl with silver hair clasped hands with a young man, saw Prince Doran in his chair, his eyes full of grief, his brother beside him full of anger. She even saw Lord Connington lift the cloak from her shoulders, felt naked and cold, then watched as Quentyn was handed another and set it on her shoulders, heavier still than her own. 

It was the shaking of his hands that brought her back to herself, the shaking and the gentle squeeze he gave her arm.

She awoke then.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband,” She recited, remembering herself.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” Quentyn replied, “and take you for my lady and wife.”

She felt his cool lips against hers then.

He had visited her in the days leading up to the wedding, asking after her often but she found she had little to say about her life, as sheltered and deprived as it was, and preferred to listen to his stories instead, of the places in Dorne he had visited and the friends he had made. He was pleasant and kind to her, in truth, but it was unsettling to think of being married to him, of loving him the way ladies loved knights in the tales and songs she’d heard, of looking at him the way his uncle looked at his paramour. Only once had he tried to kiss her, but it had lasted for less than a moment and felt queer, dry and wet all at once, pressing against the corner of her mouth more than her lips. He had not made a second attempt since.

Not until they stood there, in front of the Dornish court, and all she could do was blush, like a stupid little girl, not like a woman flowered wed.

“Here in the sight of gods and men, I proclaim Quentyn of House Martell and Daenerys of House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.” 

They feasted over 200 guests in the domed hall of Sunspear. Her and Quentyn led the court with a slow dance and it is easy for her to ignore the steps he missed when she was so preoccupied with his hands on her waist, the feel of his breath on her skin when they moved close, wondering where he would touch her during their bedding, what parts his breath would reach. She did not feel emboldened by it, only wished she had someone’s skirts she could hide behind, thankful when Ser Cletus Yronwood stepped in for a dance and afterwards Ser Gerris Drinkwater, who lifted her high at every turn. She danced with the Daemon Sand that night, and Perros Blackmont, Mors Manwoody, Arron Qorgyle and Tremond Gargalen, even with the Red Viper.

It was only once she was seated beside Quentyn, red-faced from the strain of the dances or perhaps from the spiced wine generously served at every table, that she heard the call to bed.

Lord Connington stepped forward and for a moment she thought he would put an end to it. She did not know if she wished for his interruption or feared it.

“Before the bedding,” He announced, his voice proud, seeming to echo through the hall, “The king and Prince Viserys have sent a gift their Graces wish to present to the princess.”

He muttered a command and two of his squires stepped forward, holding a chest between them. They set it down before her and Dany cautiously reached for the latch, feeling the eyes of court upon her. She could not help but gasp to see the three huge eggs, nestled in red velvet, each covered with tiny scales.

“What are they?” Quentyn asked beside her, his eyes fixed on the eggs.

“Dragon eggs,” Lord Connington replied, motioning for Dany to turn the chest so that those in attendance could see its contents, “They have turned to stone over the years but their Graces hope it will always be a reminder of the glory of her house.”

She had seen dragon eggs before, knew that Rhaenys, Viserys, and Aegon had all had that put in their cradles when they were young children, as they had been for the Targaryens of old. Dany had been born in more uncertain times and was not afforded the same honor. These eggs were more brilliant somehow, green and pale and black with ripples and flecks that seemed to bring them to life.

Lord Connington took his place once again on the dais beside the Red Viper and Prince Doran.

“On the subject of honor and of beddings,” the Red Viper began, smiling, his voice loud enough for those around them to hear, “The glory of our house on this night rests not on eggs nor dragons of old, but on a very simple, soiled sheet of silk.”

Quentyn looked across the platform at his father curiously but Lord Connington only leaned closer not to the Red Viper but to Prince Doran, his face twisted in a barely concealed expression of rage, his courtly mask instantly replaced.

“The princess has been a near prisoner in your Water Gardens for years,” He hissed, “And you dare question her honor?”

Prince Doran’s expression, on the other hand, did not falter.

“It will be a testament to her honor, surely,” was his only reply.

“It is humiliation and disgrace – “

Lord Connington was interrupted by Prince Oberyn, who rose in his seat.

“My lords and ladies,” He called, “It is time to bed them!”

* * *

_I am the blood of the dragon, I am Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, of the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror._

She was thrown into the room first, nothing left of her beautiful gown, hands covering her breasts and a smile on her face as she tried to keep up with the ribald japes of the men, telling herself that it was part of it all, something all women were made to endure, made to smile through. It helped to think of her mother and her mother’s mother, think of all the women who had gone through it before her, only a few moments out of their lives, a flicker of men’s grabbing hands and their breath hot on her skin, her body bared for all to see, a trial she would suffer through only once.

It helped her to bear it, so long as she was carried along the corridors of the palace, so long as she could see a sea of faces both familiar and unfamiliar, but when she was taken to the room, when the wooden door closed behind her with a thud, it was difficult to maintain her perspective.

The chamber was sparsely decorated, the main feature a huge oaken bed set against a wall, brilliantly colored tapestries hanging on the wall. Windows made of painted glass opened to the sea, the moon hanging full and low in the sky and a small table was set by the door, candles already lit, with a flagon of wine and two chalices.

It was a chamber decorated with one purpose in mind.

Given the choice between standing at the center of the room and being able to hide, at least part of her, beneath the linens, Dany preferred the latter option. She resisted the urge to hold the white sheets up to her chin, settling instead for pulling them up to her chest, tucking them under her armpits, her hands in her lap, fingers picking at the skin around her nails, hair spread out across her shoulders.

She remained like that until the door opened once again and Quentyn was thrown in, much like she had been. His smile seemed even more forced than hers, the ruddy glow to his face deepening as soon as the door closed for a final time, his hands reaching out to cover himself for a quick moment before he thought better of it and let his hands fall against his sides.

Dany looked away immediately, did not look at him even as she heard his footsteps against the marble of the room, even as he slid into the bed beside her, pulling the sheets up to his own waist, the bed suddenly warmer.

The cheering and jeering outside the doors did not cease, as Dany had anticipated, seemed only to grow louder.

Quentyn seemed to notice as well.

“They all stand outside, waiting for the sheets,” He murmured, his eyes not meeting hers, “Even my uncle and my cousins."

It _was_ humiliation, Dany knew. An expression of their unhappiness with her brother or their dislike for the match, she did not know, or perhaps some power play. Dany did not know, _could not_ think of it, not once she felt Quentyn’s shaking hand on her shoulder, moving her hair out of the way, his lips pressing tentatively against her skin.

She leaned towards him, because it was what she knew she must do, let him move his lips from her shoulder up to her neck and her cheek and finally to her lips. He was as gentle as he had always been, allowing her to set the pace, to decide how deep the kiss should be and how long it should last. It was not altogether unpleasant, an improvement on their earlier attempts certainly, and the slower they kissed the more pleasure she felt, as their movements grew almost languid, tongues pressing against each other, his hands twisted in her hair. 

It was almost easy to forget then the voices outside the room, easy to forget the sheets beneath them, the feel of him pressing against her thigh.

It grew more difficult to forget once she felt his hands on her knees, gently nudging them apart, once she was on her back and he was hovering above her, her eyes closed, his breathing heavy, fighting the urge to pull away.

_I am Daenerys Stormborn of the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror._

She felt a spurt of warm fluid on the inside of her thigh suddenly, opened her eyes to find him pulling away, a grimace on his face. His eyes read shame and Dany understood then what occurred.

She would have reached out perhaps, comforted him if that was what was right, kissed him if it might have cheered him, but the voices had grown louder outside, turned to shouting and knocking ( _or was that her heart?_ ).

“They’re waiting,” Quentyn murmured, sitting on the side of the bed, his back to her, his voice defeated, “I can’t… Not now…”

 _I am the blood of the dragon_.

For the first time that night she knew what to do.

Dany reached between her thighs, cringed at the feel of his seed, at the feel of her own wetness, bringing her fingers down to where she knew the blood emerged every moon’s turn. It burned when she put a finger inside herself, pained her all the more once she added a second, her yelp of pain causing Quentyn to look around, his eyes widening. She ignored him, _had to_ , pushed upwards until she felt that sharp stab of pain and pulled her fingers away to find them thick with blood.

She wiped them on the silks, stood up with shaky legs, Quentyn mirroring her actions as they each grabbed an edge of the sheets, freeing them from the featherbed. It was strange; somehow the sight of his naked body did not scare her, not did the sight of hers seem to for him. _It is the secret we now share_ , she told herself, _a secret that wipes away shame_. 

He opened the door halfway, to the raucous cheers of those outside, cheers turned louder once he had handed over the sheet, the proof of their marriage disappearing behind the wooden doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't really sure how I wanted the bedding to go but in light of certain developments on the show and not wanting to write dub-con/non-con, I decided to go in a different direction where the emphasis is on the youth and inexperience of both participants and the terrible situation overall. 
> 
> Really excited to get everyone's thoughts on this chapter! And thank you once again for your feedback! Like I said before, it really helps me keep going :)


	6. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedded but not yet bedded

It was Gerris who understood these things best, understood women and how to woo them and what to do once they were in your bed. He had been the first to kiss a girl, the first to swear his love, the first to lie with a woman. But he was too loud, Quentyn knew, too quick to jest and to mock. And laughter was the last thing he needed. 

It was Cletus instead whom he sought out, for Cletus it had always been, closer to Quentyn than the brother with whom he shared Martell blood. Cletus understood women as much as Gerris did but his exploits were not as frequent, nor did he share them as willingly. Most importantly, he would not make light of Quentyn’s dilemma, would treat him with the love of a brother and the allegiance of a lord to his prince. It was Cletus, after all, who had refrained from joining in the ribald japes made among their companions the night before Quentyn’s wedding knowing it displeased him, who had only put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Give your bride a kiss for me.”

They broke their fast together a few days following the wedding, feasting on a selection of apricot tarts, cherries, and sweet biscuits, the sweet Dornish summerwine sitting in the tankards untouched between them. It was only after they finished eating that Cletus spoke up, perhaps sensing Quentyn’s own discomfort and hesitation at any mention of his marriage.

“How is it, to be someone’s lord husband?” Cletus asked finally with a smile, though his eyes remained still and serious.

Quentyn shrugged, favoring his friend with a half-smile, “It feels much the same.”

“Though now there is a beautiful Targaryen princess awaiting you in your bed,” Cletus chuckled.

Cletus’ eyes did not leave Quentyn, measuring his reaction. It was their way, had always been, Cletus drawing out the things that Quentyn would have rather left unsaid but knew he could not.

Quentyn remained silent for a beat, took a breath and recited the words he had practiced.

“I wish for a meeting to be arranged in the Shadow City,” He began, “With the utmost discretion.”

He might have doubted Cletus’ comprehension of his vague request had it not been for the shock which flashed across his friend’s face.

“Is all well?” Cletus asked, leaning forward as though whispering might somehow shield Quentyn’s shame, or temper his embarrassment.

He could have confided in him, had he not been who he was. And though Cletus was a friend and a brother he was not a prince, could not understand nor be put into a position where he must attempt to understand, begin to question the nature of his prince’s marriage, question the alliance which was to hold Dorne together. Quentyn would hold his secret to his heart until Dany carried his child within her.

“All is well,” He replied, but did not do Cletus the discourtesy of attempting to seem dispassionate, “I only wish to… understand how I might make it more pleasurable.”

 _I humiliated myself_ , he wished to say, _and brought dishonor on my family and my name._ It had been like a dream, the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her skin, his reservations gone once he felt her pushing her breasts against his chest, and working her tongue past his teeth. It had been too sweet, however, a pleasure he could not control, reached his peak before he had even entered her. It had been horrific enough, and worse still to see her put her fingers inside herself, breaking her own maidenhead because her husband had been unable to.

He could not shame himself, nor shame her, again.

Cletus grinned, believing his response or perhaps merely accepting it.

“Aye, I will arrange it.”

It was the next night that Cletus met him outside the palace, flanked by the Big Man, Gerris and Willam Wells. They said nothing of their destination, as though they were merely on one of their adventures, aimlessly wandering through Lord Yronwood’s lands, and not heading for a pillow house.

It was expected of him, a rite of passage that all were to go through, the key to a door which stood between him and manhood, between him and some great secret hidden somewhere in bawdy jokes he laughed at but did not truly understand, burning hot and steady in the eyes of men when they drank and talked of women. He had refrained, thought instead of his bride, the girl he had been betrothed to since he was a child. It was a fragile peace between Dorne and the rest of the Kingdoms, a peace that depended on the success of that marriage. He would not risk it for a foolish night in a strange bed, he thought.

He could not have expected, however, that he would require those services following that marriage.

The pillow house, nestled in a street of small flat houses, smelled of flowers and wine, smelled of sex and perfume and smoke, strong enough to make his stomach turn as soon as he stepped in. Cletus said something to a girl waiting by the door and when a woman with coiled hair came forward from behind an ornate door, presenting behind her a line of girls, dressed in gowns and shifts and nothing at all, he knew it is too late to turn back.

“My girls are here to serve you, my lords, whatever you desire will be yours,” The woman said, smiling as though they were purchasing silks and not women, and he looked at Cletus, unsure.

It was Gerris, however, who walked to her, pressing some coins in her hands, whispering something in her ear that had her laughing. They had been in Sunspear less than a fortnight; doubtless his friends had found the time to partake in all the delights the city had to offer.

“My friend will spend the evening with the beautiful creature on the left,” Gerris ordered.

Quentyn flushed and looked at his feet instead of his companion for the night, grateful for Gerris’ boldness, did not watch as his friends chose their own bedmates, only looking up when he felt Cletus’ hand on his back, nudging him forward.

They were taken to a room with many more girls, after their five had been selected, and there were men too, customers speaking in strange tongues and dressed in bright colors though the mark of wealth and nobility branded them all.

 _It is not real_ , he though, _it is a dream where I am led forward by an unseen force that I must follow._ He would follow it, had to, for himself, for Dorne.

The girl,  _his_  girl, sat beside him, told him her name is Megga, tittered awkwardly when he asked her where she was from, lied and said Dorne. When she realized that he did not wish to converse, did not wish to listen to her and the other girls playing their harps, singing their songs, he found himself being led by the hand through a hall of closed doors and up some stairs, to a room with a single candle burning and silk canopies covering the bed, a dulcimer in the corner and a bottle of wine open on a table. He stood in the center of the room, sheepishly running his fingers through his hair, truly looking at her for the first time.

She was no older than him, with black hair that fell in smooth waves down to her waist and eyes darker than his own, wide and bold. Her lips were red as though she had just feasted on strawberries, and though her dark eyebrows nearly met in the middle, somehow it only made her more beautiful. For a moment he wondered if she was nobleborn, but quickly realized that no lord would allow his daughter to end up in a place such as this. Her small body was hidden beneath a green shift made of material so thin he could make out her breasts, see her nipples, the triangle of hair that covered her mound.

Quentyn looked away, as though struck.

Wine would be his courage, he decided, and he had emptied half the bottle before she moved towards him.

Smiling meekly, she knelt in front of him, her long fingers pulling apart the laces of his breeches and reaching into his smallclothes to take hold on his cock. He was hard in a few strokes, his body reacting despite himself though his stomach was aching, and suddenly her lips were wrapped around the tip of it, suckling and licking. He was too sensitive perhaps, or too drunk, and suddenly it was painful, uncomfortable, the sight of her and her dark hair, dark eyes, altogether obscene.

“Stop,” He said, squirming away from her.

She stood up, unperturbed, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“What would you like, my lord?” She asked, smiling like a doll, like a mask.

“I would have you teach me,” He murmured, allowing her to take him to the bed this time, watching her lie down on the embroidered pillows, praying to the gods for forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a different chapter yesterday but had to take it down because I wasn't happy with it but I'll do some tweaking and post it soon! Looking forward to hearing what everyone thinks after a slightly long hiatus. Comments are much appreciated and really help motivate and inspire me :)


	7. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks and a Targaryan clash in Riverrun, and Dany and Quentyn become better acquainted.

_The princess was horrid._

Princess Rhaenys did not seem so unpleasant when she had come to greet them, standing at the gates of Riverrun beside uncle Edmure and their grandfather. She seemed like _a princess_ , that much was true, not like any other lady Arya had seen before. She had learned in her lessons that Targaryens were unusual, that they looked like no one else, but she had not expected them to be quite so different. The princess was half-Dornish, she knew, and that explained her wild brown curls and dark freckled skin, but her eyes were a brilliant lilac, so light they might have seemed clear in the sun. It frightened Arya, reminded her of the creatures Jon talked about in his tales, the ones who were said to live beyond the wall. 

Uncle Edmure was younger than she imagined and looked very much like her mother, grinning brightly, and though her grandfather looked much more grim, he broke into a smile as soon as they stepped forward.

Arya and Sansa both were more concerned with the princess, looking past their grandfather to where their uncle stood by their bride, surprised when they approached him and he embraced them warmly.

“This must be Arya,” Uncle Edmure beamed, ruffling her hair in a way that she did not at all like, before turning to Sansa, where it seemed as though his smile grew larger, “And of course, this is Sansa. You look so very much like Cat did at your age.”

It was only then that the princess finally spoke.

“My daughter has your look as well,” Princess Rhaenys said, and her voice seemed almost to float through the air, “She will be very pleased to meet you.”

Sansa blushed stupidly at that, likely forgetting that their cousin was only a babe of three and just _how_ could she be pleased to meet her.

Arya grew anxious that the conversation would turn towards her, and could not help but murmur a thanks to the gods when the princess seemed to turn to one of the attendants standing nearby, nodding her head ever so slightly so that the girls were hurried along and into the keep.

The feast was grand, Arya had to admit. Riverrun was so unlike Winterfell, so much smaller and yet just as filled with life, servants scurrying back and forth, the air filled with aromas so sweet that she felt her mouth water. Seated on the dais beside her mother and Sansa, Arya had to endure as lord after lord were brought forward for introductions. Her mother greeted them all warmly, as though she had never left the Riverlands, had not lived in Winterfell and ruled as its lady for so many years. Arya wondered if she would ever be so graceful some day.

The food was out eventually, plate after plate of carved duck, honeyed chicken, boar, and suckling pig, half flavored with dragon peppers that left Arya’s tongue burning and her eyes watering. Sansa did not seem as preoccupied with the food, spending half the evening looking at the princess, even turning down dances so she could gape and stare.

It was only when their cousin was brought out and put in her mother’s lap, a little girl that looked like Rickon wrapped in a dress of blue silk, her wild auburn hair restrained in braids that Sansa finally summoned the courage to approach.

Arya watched with curiosity, taking the opportunity to steal a lemon cake from Sansa’s plate before her sister walked back, empty-handed, a glum look on her face.

“Celia is not well,” Sansa whined, “The princess says her stomach has been upset, she will not let anyone hold her.”

Arya scrunched her nose, “Why would you want to hold a sick baby anyway?”

“She’s our cousin,” Sansa rolled her eyes, “Besides, she’s the king’s own granddaughter and the prince’s niece.”

Now it was Arya’s turn to roll her eyes. _Of course_ it was about the prince. Even Arya knew he was betrothed to his Dornish cousin, but that didn’t seem to stop Sansa and her stupid friends from fantasizing about him.

Arya would have responded had it not been for the servants bringing out the whiskerfish. Maester Luwin had told her about it, said that it came from the bottom of a river in Dorne and it was so large that it took at least two men to lift it. She had only half believed him, but could not help but look in wonder as five men carried it on a platter, placing it in front of the princess and her uncle.

 _I should like to go to Dorne_ , Arya decided, _what a fine adventure it would be._

She did her best to ignore Sansa sulking beside her and complaining to her mother, until Uncle Edmure walked by after dancing with some Frey girl and her mother called him over.

“Would it be possible to hold Celia for a moment?” She heard her mother asking, “Princess Rhaenys says she is ill but Sansa would so very much like to meet her.”

Arya watched as her uncle’s smile shifted, his eyes darting towards where his wife sat and back quickly.

“She said Celia’s ill?” He asked.

Sansa nodded, putting on her best sad look.

“Well, if Rhaenys says so then I suppose she is,” He said, and though his smile returned, it seemed somehow forced, “Mayhaps tomorrow, Sansa.”

Arya could not help but watch then, as her uncle returned to his wife’s side and some whispered words passed between them. Her uncle seemed angry now, though no one else seemed to notice it, and while the princess was more restrained, her jaw was clenched in a way that made her suddenly seem ugly.

She could not help but fall asleep not long after, her stomach far too full and the exhaustion from the journey settling in, and the last thing she remembered was her grandfather carrying her to her bed and a half formed nightmare of a beast made of ice with purple eyes, roaming the halls of Winterfell.

* * *

 

Perhaps if they had been other people, without the weight of crowns and dual legacies looming over them, then they would have had the gift of time. Time to understand each other, to grow closer, love each other as a husband and wife loved each other in simpler worlds, in songs and stories of times long past. _Love_ , however, was not a word that had been included in her training before her departure to Dorne, nor a word that had been uttered by Prince Doran or any of his Dornish retinue. It was not essential, irrelevant to the triumph of an alliance; Dany understood that, had learned not to accept it, and yet she could not help but think of how much easier it would make the required nightly visits.

He does not come to her the second night, and while perhaps she should have felt relief his absence troubles her, leaves her awake all night, expecting him to enter at any moment, sitting up whenever she heard footsteps outside her door. For her any hesitation was a maiden’s fear and embarrassment, but for him she knew it was something else, knew that it was not the word _love_ which haunted him but rather _shame_. What little sleep she had was wracked with nightmares, visions of her wedding day that twisted and morphed before her. She dreamt that he never came to her again, that they were never truly married, that they haunted Sunspear together but never intersecting, devoured by their secret.

It was spoken of, she knew, the night before when the court’s eyes were trained on the couple and could find no trace of Quentyn, could see the disdain swirling in the eyes of the courtiers, collecting like venom in the corner of the Red Viper’s mouth, ready to be spit out in turn by his daughters. Dany had been raised with Elia Sand, a funny sort of girl with a mind of her own, and though they were friends when they both played in the Water Gardens and even while Elia served as her lady-in-waiting, the girl could take liberties not granted to Dany, enjoy a type of life afforded to her by her bastard birth and by her father’s deeds.

The older ones she did not know as well.  Sarella Sand had not been in Dorne in many years, Dany had been told, and Tyene Sand was with Princess Arianne in King’s Landing. It was Obara and Nymeria who remained behind, though they did not have it in them to be playmates. Nymeria was as fair as her older sister was not and yet they both shared the same hardness, the same fire in their eyes, something dark coiled around itself and ready to strike.

Dany had felt the weight of their secret heavy on her chest, anxious as she supped with her new husband’s family, always in anticipation of his revelation, looming above her like a headsman’s axe.

When she awoke, her head ached and she struggled to keep her eyes open as her maids dressed her, too exhausted to even silence the young girls or to play the role of the blushing bride.

It was only then that he entered her rooms, once she had finally been dressed and coiffed and rid of the miserable company of her maids, looking as exhausted as she felt.

He stood for a few seconds, saying nothing, and Dany could do nothing but rise in greeting, stare at him dumbly, wonder if she should be kind or cold or feign indifference.

“I wish to apologize for my behavior,” He said, and hesitated at that last word, “I would make amends, if you would permit me.”

Dany stupidly smiled, unsure of his meaning but he only stepped forward, perhaps emboldened by her response, though looking at his feet the whole while.

He reached for her waist, pulled her close so that her body was pressed fully against his. It was only then that he kissed her, when they were so close it seemed as though she could hear his breaths, feel his chest rising and falling along her own, with none of the hesitation of before. This time, his mouth was warm, his kisses slow, and Dany tried to match his pace, match the movement of his lips as they nipped at her own, the rhythm of his tongue against hers.

Their lips rung out as their pressed together, vulgar sounds that might have disgusted her had they emerged from another pair but which somehow only excited her more. She felt awfully grown up, more so than she had at her bedding, perhaps because she hear the sounds of the keep coming alive around them or that only moments before she had gotten dressed and prepared for the day. Kisses only happened at night, she had thought, or at least kisses between lords and ladies that had been married. This was a tryst, an exciting adventure. For a moment she imagined a splendid knight, come to steal her away, or some dangerous sellsword but it left her feeling guilty, and she forced herself only to _feel_.

His hands did not shift from her waist in the meantime, even as she felt that they were somehow moving ever closer, as her lifted her own from her side and found herself pulling at his doublet, not quite knowing why.

Her skin had grown altogether too hot and her legs had begun to ache and it was then that he slowly started pulling at her gown, his lips not leaving her mouth, dragging the fabric up towards her waist until her lower body was naked before him.

 _It did not hurt much_ , she reminded herself, those moments when she broke her maidenhead, _it will not hurt now, he will not hurt me_.

To her surprise, he did not undress himself, kept kissing her as he had before, as though to help her forget her nakedness. She grew intensely aware, however, of the warmth of his fingers on her thighs, more so when he moved his hand between them. When he touched her sex, a single finger gliding across her opening, Dany could not help but yelp.

It was a pathetic sound, the humiliation made even worse when he pulled away suddenly, a look of abject horror on his face.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked.

“No,” She said hurriedly, and then decided to restore as much of her dignity as she could, “You may… continue.”

He did not comment nor smile but furrowed his brow, as though concentrating on a mystery very difficult to unravel, and returned his lips to hers.

Quentyn moved his fingers against her slowly, almost lazily, up and down, and though it felt peculiar at first it wasn’t long before she felt herself bucking against him, matching his movements with her own, her hips moving towards his and back again. She wrapped her hands around his neck to steady herself, stood on her tiptoes to reach even closer, all thoughts of her previous discomfort forgotten.

It may have been humiliating in any other context, such an open display of her pleasure, particularly considering her station and the unfamiliarity between them, but what had she to be embarrassed of now, after what occurred to him on their first night? The thought did not come to her with spite or disdain but rather matter-of-factly. What occurred between them in their bedchamber would remain between them, Dany knew; it had been already been decided for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This writer's block has been really rough. I hope you enjoy this new chapter, and I can't wait to hear what you think :)


	8. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations and journeys
> 
> Next up: King's Landing

Oberyn’s rooms in Sunspear were beautiful, with vast windows that overlooked the entirety of the shadow city. They had been his rooms since he was a small child, before he was sent to Sandstone, and Oldtown and Lys after that. Doran had called him a creature of romance when he had chosen those rooms again as a man, once Doran himself had grown ill and weary and chosen his own sort of exile in the Water Gardens. Mellario had left by then, Quentyn gone to pay a debt to the Yronwoods, Arianne sent to collect on a debt _owed_ in King’s Landing. Trystane was a child but a princeling still, set to his studies in Sunspear. And in their place, to fill the void that remained, that surrounded Doran, Daenerys Targaryen stood, a child barely able to stand, to feed or cloth herself.

It was queer, as it always had been, to see that princess walking through the halls of his forefathers, still so much the child for all the talk of what went on between her and his nephew in their bedchambers. Ellaria chastised him in her own way, in those first days after the wedding when he was getting daily reports from the guards posted at their door regarding the young couple’s nighttime activities.

“It is _obscene_ , Oberyn,” Ellaria said, even as they lay together in their own bed, limbs still wrapped around each other, “What can some eavesdropping knights know of what occurs between a man and a woman, newly married?”

More than one might expect, in truth. The guards would hear the soft sounds of moans, or the bed creaking and the old wood of the frame bouncing against the wall and would know how long they had lain with each other. The chambermaids who stripped the bed in the morning would study the sheets, the ladies in waiting would keep track of the changes to her body as they dressed her, the cooks would alert him of any special requests made to exclude or include particular dishes.

“It is _necessary_ ,” Oberyn countered.

And it was, until a child grew in the Targaryen girl’s womb and the alliance was secure. It was well known her mother had difficulties bearing children, miscarriages fair outnumbering the amount of healthy children birthed. Shaera Targaryen before her had only birthed two children, though whether that was her own blunder or caused by the weakness of her brother-husband, it was unclear.

“These thoughts are beneath you,” His lover murmured, as though she had read his mind, “You know better than any man that babes do not come with careful planning set by the reports of spies. They are young and healthy; when the gods will it, so it shall come to be.”

“Perhaps in our world,” Oberyn replied, grateful as ever that his relationship with Ellaria was one that had always been grounded in honesty and did not flinch away from the truth of the difference of their stations, “It is our privilege to leave such matters to the gods. It is not so for Quentyn, not when he is to take Doran’s place, when his consort is a princess of Targaryen blood and the king’s only sister.”

She sighed, wrapping her fingers in his, meeting his eyes, “Is that how it goes? Rhaegar betrayed Elia so Arianne was sent to marry their son. She will be picked apart by King’s Landing as every queen was before her, your sister most of all, and in turn you will rip and tear at his sister here in Dorne. Where does it end, Oberyn?”

 _It does not end, should not end,_ he wished to say, _it goes round and round until time washes away Rhaegar’s sin, when the name Lyanna Stark is lost to the ages and the children of Aegon and Arianne and their children after sit on the throne._

Doran had asked him that same question years ago, when Daenerys was still a young child and Oberyn’s anger was still sharp. The flames of his rage were fanned all the more by the sight her, this girl who looked _so much_ like her kingly brother. She was all innocence and sweetness, silver curls and purple eyes, lighter than Rhaegar’s own indigo pair, but there was something in the very movement of her, the way she kept herself apart from the other children at first, the way she blanched at the sight of the Dornish dishes presented to her, gaping and staring at everything around her that reminded him so much of Rhaegar’s arrogance.

 _They are all mad and vain,_ he had barked at Doran in those early months, _is this whom you wish to saddle your son with?_

Doran had pursed his lips, frown lines spreading across his face. He was fond of the girl, Oberyn knew, had heard the maester speak of her willingness to learn and the septa tell of her kindness. But even Doran did not fall to sentimentality. 

 _Arianne is both guest and hostage_ , his brother had explained, his voice barely above a hush, _as Daenerys is our guest and hostage. It is a careful game, and we play it against the most able of players._

 _Our fates are bound_ , Oberyn came to understand. The weapon in Rhaegar’s arsenal was the same which was held in Doran’s hands, war and vengeance and hate kept contained in the form of a young girl, whose womb was meant to bear forth the fruits of peace.

It was not the path that Oberyn would have chosen and he may have been driven to more radical solution had Elia not been so acquiescent to this plan. _I want to see my children happy_ , she’d written to him, _and Doran’s children as well. This is not the time for war…_

“The night is long and such talk is grim,” He offered instead, turning on his side so that he could wrap Ellaria fully into his arms, “Why not spend the fleeting hours before morning occupied with more pleasant matters?”

Ellaria’s smile was slow to appear but it grew bright and brilliant as their lips touched.

* * *

Dany’s heart beat so wildly in her chest when Quentyn first told her that she thought it might burst entirely. He spoke the words so casually, so coolly as though it were a simple matter, some item on a list that needed to be managed, that her response startled him. She reached for him instantly, as though to assure herself she was not lost in some dreamland, her hands holding tight to his tunic. 

Their couplings had grown sweeter, braver, but that comfort was not mirrored in their daily exchanges. It was easy in the nights, when even the shadow city lay still, when the candles were snuffed and it was as though they breathed with the same set of lungs, their single heart beating at an identical rhythm. There were times in the darkness when they did not even join their bodies, only explored with hands and lips and tongues. Driven by some type of madness, some fire lit under her skin and wildness that had taken hold of her, she had wrapped her mouth around him, thrilled when he shouted out in surprise, when he tried and failed to control his moans, the shaking and thrusting of his body, all the while she licked and sucked and within a few moments tasted his seed in her mouth.

It was only then that Dany understood that some things could not be taught, that a septa may have told her what it meant to make a babe but it was altogether different to let someone touch the most intimate places of your body, to want so badly to reach out and touch and taste theirs.

The daylight, however, left no room for bravery nor curiosity. In the morning when they awoke, sometimes still wrapped around each other, sometimes with his hands still between her thighs or at her breasts as though even in sleep he did not want to be parted from them, their nakedness shamed them. Even if they lay together in those early hours of the morning, it was beneath sheets and covers, awkward and clumsy. He was a stranger to her once more, a kind stranger, one she did not fear, but a stranger nonetheless, and she was the same to him, until the moon shone high and the stars bright in the sky again.

“Do you mean it, truly?” She asked, even as Quentyn cast uncomfortable glances at Ser Manfrey Martell, who pretended to concern himself with the ledger book but could not hide his amused smile.

“Yes,” Quentyn said, raising his arms as though to take her hands in his before thinking otherwise and letting them fall dumbly at his sides, “My father says it is to be a tour of good will, to introduce you to the lords and ladies of the lands we will rule one day… Together.”

She could have jumped for joy had she not remembered her station. Dany had seen little of Dorne, little of the world in truth, forced to be content to read about its lands in history tomes and dream of adventures in far off places, where she could see strange creatures and meet strange people and breathe in new scents, lose herself in a maze of brilliant colors and sounds. And now it was to be.

“Where shall we go?” She asked, her head already dizzy with dreams.

Quentyn moved away from her then, picking up a piece of parchment that lay on his desk, handing her the small map that accompanied it. He had grown occupied in the last few weeks, particularly once Prince Doran had left for the Water Gardens, and the Red Viper began to scale back his duties. It was his training, she knew, so that he may learn what it means to take his father’s place one day. Dany had seen no such change in her daily routine.

“We are to begin at Planky Town and Lemonwood, before visiting Hellholt and Sandstone then Starfall,” He read, her eyes racing hungrily across the crude map in her hands, taking in all the names, “Then back around to Yronwood, Tor, and Godsgrace, where you may see where the Vaith, the Scourge, and the Greenblood meet.”

“And what of Kingsgrave and Blackmont?” Dany asked.

She knew nothing of those houses, only that they sat close to the Red Mountains. Her journey to Dorne all those years ago had taken her by the sea route, robbing her of the sights of Westeros. _It would be wonderful to see the_ _Red Mountains_ , she thought, and to dream of all that lay north of them.

Ser Manfrey cleared his throat, giving Quentyn a look that Dany did not understand.

“There are skirmishes,” Quentyn replied, his voice soft, a strange tilt to his voice at the last word, “It is dangerous yet to journey so far north.”

 _Dangerous_ was a word she heard often. It was _dangerous_ to leave the Water Gardens as a child, _dangerous_ to leave Sunspear, _dangerous_ to travel to King’s Landing, to visit all those who she had left behind. What that danger was, she did not know, but did not think it wise to ask in the presence of the castellan.

“When do we leave?” She said instead. 

* * *

 

It was a tiring business, going on adventures. Dany had learned to ride a horse as a child, as did all highborn ladies, but she had never had to sit atop one for so long, nor journey over such long distances. By the time they reached Saltshore her thighs burned so viciously that it hurt to move her legs, to so much as to sit in a seat and to rise from it. The Dalts were gracious hosts, as where the Ullers after them, as though their hospitality may redeem the grimness of their keep, and she did her best to return that charm but by the time they reached Sandstone, it was all she could do not to sink into her bed at the end of each day.

Quentyn chose to ride with his friends initially, so comfortable in their company, so at ease that Dany could not help but feel a pang of envy, surrounded by those ladies who should have been her friends and yet eyed her so cautiously. Elia Sand was the only exception but she was a wild thing entirely, prone to riding for long distances alone, so fast that there was no hope Dany might be able to keep up, circling back around with her hair a tangled mess and stinking of horses.

He had noticed Dany’s pain, doubtless watching her as he always did in his own sweet way, and had ridden up to her sometime after they had left Hellholt to ask if she would like for them to turn back, to take one of Lord Uller’s wheelbarrows for the rest of the journey.

It had taken everything in her to say no, knowing how their young company of knights and ladies would resent her for slowing their pace. Quentyn only pursed his lips, but rode beside her every day after that, choosing their silence over the ribald amusement of his friends.

By the time they reached Starfall, not even halfway through their tour, Dany acutely regretted her decision to forgo more comfortable means of transportation. The pain was unbearable, spreading to her back and somewhere deep inside her stomach, turning and clenching each time she sat atop her steed. Even the beauty of the castle, impeccably marbled, twisting and spiraling so high it almost seemed a part of the sky itself, as though to climb its stairs was to reach the stars, did not hold the power over her that she thought it might. _It is made of magic_ , she remembered suddenly, had survived even the onslaught of dragons and not turned to ash, not blackened nor dirtied but remained beautiful ivory and white. The magic did not reach her, however, did not fill her with warmth as she thought it might, her physical weariness outweighing it all.

The Daynes stood smiling at the gates, surrounded by the members of their household, and Dany forced herself to sit higher in the saddle as her company filed one by one into the courtyard, surrounded by jasmine plants, their sweetness filling the air.

Dany knew few of those assembled, save by name. There was a little boy, with pale blond hair, looking nervous who she took to be Edric Dayne, the Lord of Starfall. A striking woman stood beside him, hair braided, black and thick sitting atop her head, and Dany knew by her beauty and her elegance that it was Lady Ashara Dayne. _She is my dearest friend,_ Dany suddenly remembered Elia telling her so many years ago, when she was a child, frightened to leave her home, _if you have need of anything in Dorne, a woman’s wisdom, you can turn to her_. Dany had heard nothing from Lady Ashara over the years, and yet the sight of her somehow pleased her.

To Lady Ashara’s left stood a man who might have been her twin, black haired and purple eyed, as fair as her, tall and broad, dressed in rich finery. Lady Ashara was married to Brandon Stark, Dany recalled, but this man did not seem to be a Stark. He looked familiar, someone she might have met in a different life somehow, but could not place him.

“My prince, my princess,” Little Edric Dayne said, his voice clear despite his discomfort, “Starfall is yours.”

By then Quentyn had dismounted, helping her down from her horse, steadying her instantly so no one could see how her knees shook.

“Your lands are beautiful,” Dany recounted, the same words she had used at every keep thus far, though this time she meant it.

“Their beauty pales in comparison to your own, surely,” Lady Ashara offered kindly, her voice like music, before turning to Quentyn, “My prince, I believe the last time I saw you, you were a babe in your mother’s arms.”

“And the last time I saw the princess,” A deep voice, raspy and accented cut in, “She was hiding in the White Sword Tower, hoping to jump out and scare Prince Aegon.”

It suddenly made sense.

“Ser Arthur?” Dany asked, incredulous.

He was not the man she remembered, not out of his Kingsguard white, though his face had hardly aged, nor had any grey hairs reached his temple. Dany had always preferred Ser Gerold as a child; he would carry her and spin her around, tickle her whenever she pouted, let her climb over him as though he were a tree. Ser Arthur was more distant, spending his days locked away with Rhaegar, though no less kind. The Lord Commander’s smiles and approval were simply more difficult to win.

It did not seem to be the case any longer, not as he grinned at Dany now, his eyes searching her face and form.

“I have grown into an old man since last you saw me,” Ser Arthur replied, “While you have grown into a young woman of surpassing loveliness.”

Dany smiled at that, feeling suddenly like a little girl once again, running through the halls of the Red Keep barefoot and laughing.

No sooner had the greetings been exchanged than Quentyn turned to Edric Dayne, as custom dictated.

“Lord Dayne, show us to our rooms,” Quentyn commanded, “We have traveled for long and the princess is unwell.”

Dany tried not to chafe at that, being torn away from someone who reminded her of what had once been her home, spoken for as though she were a child unable to express her own needs, but even as she felt irritation rising within her she knew Quentyn was right. She could not stay on her feet much longer.

“Of course,” Edric replied, gesturing to an older man who she assumed to be the castellan of the keep, who lead them inside.

Her rooms were beautiful, perched in a tower that afforded her a view of the entire island, as well as the Summer Sea. For a moment as she lay in bed, too exhausted to even change out of her riding clothes, she wondered what lay at the horizon, what she might find if she could fly sail south past Sothyoros, to the very edges of the known world.

She dreamt of half-men as she slept, with skin like an animal’s fur, all brown and white, with snouts for noses and monstrous beasts, sand fleas and bloodworms and white vampire bats. There was no fear in her; she flew above them, untouchable and unassailable, waking with a start to a knock on her door.

It took a moment to remember where she was, still half lost in sleep, before croaking, “enter” and sitting up in the bed.

Dany was surprised to see not one of her ladies, or even Quentyn, but rather Ser Arthur, smiling wanly.

“May I come in, your grace?” He asked.

She was suddenly embarrassed of her muddled state, the saliva that had dried on her cheek, the crust in her eyes, but remembered this was the same man which had known her since she was a babe, wetting herself in the middle of the night, having to be carried to Rhaegar’s chambers.

“Of course,” She replied, sliding off the bed, taking unsteady steps to the table set beneath the window, littered with foods and drinks she did not so much as have the desire to touch.

Ser Arthur sat across from her and once again Dany could not help but notice how queer it was, to see him out of his Kingsguard white. It was a startling reminder that he was a _man_ , not just a knight, with his own cares and burdens beyond the duties of serving her family.

“My sister Allyria was married not two moons past,” He said, tearing himself a piece of bread, “The king allowed me leave to attend the wedding and when we were sent word that you were to come to Starfall, I thought to extend my stay.”

Dany smiled, “I am glad you did.”

“Married life suits you,” Ser Arthur murmured, rolling the bread between his fingers into a ball before popping it into my mouth, chewing quickly, and Dany could hear the question in his words.

“Quentyn is good,” She offered, and meant it, “He told me before we were married that he would show me all of Dorne and he kept his promise.”

The knight seemed pleased by that, though it did not seem to be enough to put him entirely at ease. He was silent for a moment, as though putting the words together in his mind, fiddling with his fingers in a way that she might have thought meant he was anxious, had she not known who he was.

“Is he…” He began, hesitating, “Gentle?”

It was Dany’s turn to fall silent, suddenly painfully aware of the color that had risen to her cheeks. This was the last matter that she thought she might ever discuss with the Sword in the Morning.

“Yes,” Dany finally answered, avoiding the urge to avert her gaze, “I believe it is his very nature.”

Ser Arthur breathed, the tension disappearing from his face, replaced instead with an expression that looked something like relief. It puzzled Dany but she feared to ask.

“I am glad our young prince is proving his quality,” He said, “And what of you, princess? I heard talk that you have been ill on the journey.”

It was Dany’s turn to be relieved then, to speak of anything but what occurred between her husband and her in their bedchamber.

“Yes, a bit,” She admitted, “I have never traveled so far before. I find myself weary, spending half the day asleep and the other half tender and aching. Quentyn says a few weeks’ rest in Starfall and I should be back to myself.”

“I am sure you will be restored here,” Ser Arthur said, his eyes narrowing, “If I may be so bold as to suggest a visit to our maester. He may be able to ease your discomfort.”

It was sweet in a way, that he was still caring for her, as though she were still a child, tripping over her own feet, trying to keep up with her older playmates.

“Yes, have him come to my rooms.”

If it pleased her once guardian, she could see no harm in it.

* * *

It was both exhilarating and frightening, the walk to Quentyn’s rooms, smiling like a fool and suddenly turning anxious and glum, counting the steps to calm herself. 

The maester had chuckled as he said it, as though the child growing in her womb was some unexceptional event, an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was, women before had borne children into the world and would do so long afterward she was gone, and yet it did not feel so mundane to her.

She denied it at first, hearing how foolish she sounded even as the words came out of her mouth. She had bled, she asserted, a few weeks into their journey, though it was lighter than her regular moonblood, did not last nearly as long. The maester only found that amusing, assured her that it was a normal occurrence, that there was no doubt she had been with child for at least four months, that soon her belly would start to grow.

Dany sat through their welcome feast in silence, in some sort of shock, going through the motions as though someone else had taken hold of her body, putting food to her mouth, smiling whenever someone paid her a courtesy.

By nightfall, she forced herself out of her trance. Quentyn bid good night to her, worry etched on his face, and a few moments later she was retracing his steps, paying no attention to his guards and attendants as she opened the door to his chambers, closing it behind her with a thud.

Her husband was undressing, readying himself for bed, stilling instantly as she approached him.

“You do not look well,” He said, reaching for her face as though he might read the illness in her eyes.

She shook her head. _What will our child be like_ , she suddenly wondered, _our child…_

Words failed her, and all she could do was take his hands and place them on her still flat stomach.

It took a moment for him to understand, and then a look of wonder flashed across his face. He looked so much like the young boy he was in that moment, for all his family’s efforts to turn him into his father.

“You’re with child,” He murmured, a statement and a question.

Dany could not help but smile.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for bearing with my sporadic updates. And as always, thank you for the comments and please do keep them coming. I can't even begin to describe how much of a gamechanger it is as a writer to read your comments, even if it's just a couple of words. It really helps keep me inspired :)


	9. Author's Note

Hello everyone!

I have a lot of the next chapter written up already but I wanted to take some time before I posted it and check in with everyone about how you all think the story is going. As some of you guys know, there are a couple of other fics I'm working on (and I might start a quote swap series soon!) but this fic is really where my heart lies, and what I find myself thinking about during the day. I have big plans and it's going to be a mammoth work (hopefully!), but I've been wanting to step back and engage with you guys a little bit more. It really does help me get the creative process going, and I love talking to all of you, even if we just exchange a couple of words.

So please drop me a comment and let me know what you're thinking.

 


	10. Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living ghosts

Her husband was tense that morning. He said nothing – Rhaenys had to give Edmure his proper due, he was not an angry man, but he was nonetheless a coward. He was not the sort to withdraw from a battle or from a boast, the lordling that all his people wanted him to be, but he practically _wilted_ when she even began to raise her voice. It was not fear, he was certainly not afraid of her, nor was it indifference, or else he would have ceased to spend time in her presence entirely. Rather, he was tired.

Tired of the fighting, of the constant need to defend his family. Yet, she was as well.

Rhaenys had not been the most willing bride, she could not deny that. _You will be a warrior_ , her father told her as soon as she was old enough to understand, _you will be my warrior princess_. And for a while, she had been. At dawn, when Aegon was roused to begin his lessons with Ser Arthur in the courtyard while the castle slept, Rhaenys was always there waiting, sleep still in her eyes yet exhilarated. She was hyperaware with the wooden sword in her hand, and though it were true or not, she felt as though she could hear every step on the marble floors of the keep, the whisper maids and cooks beginning their chores, their laughter and complaints, and further away water lapping against the shore, and all of King’s Landing coming to life. 

Her father had not tried to keep it a secret, and for that Rhaenys loved him. It amused the courtiers, “ _I suppose Dornish blood runs hot_ ,” and even this glibness did not upset her. She would prove them wrong, she remembered thinking, she would show them all that this was not child’s play, not a passing fancy but rather her very destiny, the reason she was born.

Rhaenys never got the chance to touch real steel, however. Before she was old enough, her training sessions had ended and her father, always watching, merely said that he was mistaken, that this was not her path.

How could that be? She still struggled against that, all those years later. It had felt as though one moment she was _great,_ or would one day achieve greatness, and the next she was plunged into anonymity, to a life like all the lives of the princesses who came before her, destined for nothing but marriage, her biggest battle to take place not in some faraway land, on some great adventure in the midst of danger, but rather on a bed.

It had made her unpleasant, to say the least, in those first few months of married life. Edmure was handsome enough as lords went, not much older than her, and heir to great lands. And yet, was it not on those very same lands where treason was plotted when she was not more than a child clinging to her mother’s skirts? The Starks to ally with the the Tullys and the Tullys with the Arryns in turn, a plot foiled only by Brandon Stark's lust.

And was it not _this_ , this den of treachery, where it all began and where Rhaenys was now doomed to spend the rest of her days, wary of Lord Hoster’s cold eyes.

She had scowled through her wedding, as childish as it now seemed to her, but Edmure had only stared at her in that stupefied way of his, his mouth agape, as though he were taking in the sight of some creature, some being no man had ever seen before, had never discovered. It had been like that for weeks, until her father’s men had left Riverrun and she was left alone with her husband, and came to understand there was no hope in her stubbornness.

This morning, Edmure was holding their daughter in his arms and Rhaenys knew it was his feeble attempt to avoid an uncomfortable conversation, sure that she would not argue in her presence. She had learned that much from her parents after all. Rhaenys said nothing, leaning towards him instead to smooth her daughter’s hair and press a kiss to her forehead.

“You look beautiful,” He said, perhaps expecting a kiss of his own.

And she did, she must. _Your beauty is your strength,_ her mother taught her, _it can bring gushing waters to the deserts of Dorne or turn the Red Mountains black_. The words were spoken not as simply a mother’s pride, but were a lesson she herself had learned, after all of those years in King’s Landing. Queen Elia was the most beautiful woman Rhaenys had seen - jet black hair that fell in heavy and glossy waves down to her waist, eyes larger and rounder than Rhaenys’ or even Aegon’s, with a frame of thick eyelashes shielding her eyes – and yet her beauty had not been enough. It was a mystery Rhaenys had not solved, _why_ her father had chosen his path despite everything that existed within her mother, not just her beauty but her kindness and laughter, her caring touch. 

Edmure was a different man from her father, however, and for him, beauty seemed to be enough. He was a man who was easy to satisfy, whether in the bedchamber or in conversation, or merely through the knowledge that beauty existed in his life, that it could somehow belong to him.

She took Celia from his arms, resting her daughter easily on her hip and followed her husband wordlessly into his father’s solar, where his family awaited them to break their fast.

Rhaenys steeled herself.

They all stood as she entered, but her eyes flew automatically to the latest arrival, a man dressed in grey with his brows knotted.

“I am honored to meet you, princess,” Ned Stark said, bowing low.

He was not the man she thought he would be. Rhaenys had spent the last night imagining his form and face, this monster who could have roused half the North to his side who had likely wished her father dead before it had come to an end, before Lyanna Stark was returned to her betrothed and sins forgiven. Before her, however, stood a grim figure, plain-faced, his eyes meeting her own hesitantly.

“The honor is mine, Lord Stark,” Rhaenys returned, giving him her most disarming smile, “Please take a seat. I trust your journey went well?”

Ned Stark waited until she was seated before he took her place beside his wife. He was meant to come to with his wife and daughters a week earlier, before they would all journey to the capital for Aegon’s wedding, but had been held back in a meeting with one of her father’s envoys returning from the Wall. Rhaenys had half-wished the delay had been indefinite.

“Yes, thank you, your grace,” He answered shortly, and it seemed to Rhaenys as though he were clenching his jaw.

Catelyn Stark sat at her husband's side, her cheeks flushed, her face serene and content. Their two daughters sat to his other side, and next to Sansa, the eldest, sat Hoster Tully. He had been ill for months, Rhaenys knew, but he had showed no sign of it since his daughter and her family's arrival. He did not wish to worry his daughter, Edmure had told her, but she could not help but think he would not long for this world. 

Celia was beginning to fuss in her arms, and Rhaenys nodded to the nurse standing at the door, who took her child easily from her hands and through to where she could be fed. 

"It is good to see you again, brother," Edmure said, in his easy way before motioning for the attendants to come forward and begin serving the food, "It has been too long."

"It has indeed, Edmure," Ned Stark replied. 

His face seemed as though it were made of stone, devoid of an expression. From the happiness that radiated from the women around him, however, it was clear that he was a man loved.

"I only wish your sons had been able to join us, Cat," Lord Hoster spoke, "I long to see their faces."

Their  _sons_. Three for her, and four for him. Somehow, Rhaenys could not imagine this man who sat across from her was capable of fathering a bastard.  _Bastards are born of passion_ , she remembered hearing, and yet Ned Stark did not seem the kind to be easily impassioned. It had happened sometime during the war, Edmure had told her, and the boy had been brought back to live with them in Winterfell, a fact she knew the Tullys still resented.  _How cruel_ , she thought,  _to be forced to live with the proof of your husband's shame_. And yet, Ned Stark did not seem a man capable of cruelty either.

Catelyn Tully smiled, "I wish they had. Robb must remain in Winterfell while we are gone, and we were loath to part him from his brothers as well."

"Your grace," Sansa began, blushing as she always did when she addressed Rhaenys, "Is it difficult for you to be parted from your brother, the prince?"

Rhaenys almost smiled. It seemed Aegon had yet another admirer.

"It was, at first," Rhaenys responded, and it had, "But we write to each other often."

"Prince Aegon was with us at Riverrun a year ago," Edmure added, "He is a terrific swordsman. Perhaps you will have someone worthy to spar with, Arya."

He had meant it as a jape but the girl immediately reddened, angry or embarrassed. Her mother had found a thin sword wrapped in her belongings after their first night, and the girl would not reveal who had gifted it to her and locked herself in her room when it had been taken away from her. She was a wild thing, Arya Stark, and Rhaenys was almost curious what she could do with the proper training.

Scowling, the girl turned to her father, as though he would share her affront but Ned Stark only smiled at her, brushing a black lock of hair from her eyes. Arya seemed calmed by that, a noticeably calmed.

"When can I have my surprise?" She asked quietly, as though the words were meant for her father's ears alone.

"A surprise?" Catelyn Stark laughed, "Is your father's arrival not gift enough?"

"Father said he brought us a  _special_  surprise," Arya responded, "He told me so this morning."

Ned Stark's eyes met Rhaenys' for one brief, uncomfortable moment and he almost seemed pained to speak.

"It awaits you in the kennels," He stated.

Sansa, grinning, turned to the door, as though at any moment it might open and spill forth whatever her father had prepared for her, "Is it a puppy?"

"No," Ned Stark said, "Direwolves."

The room seemed quiet for one incredulous beat before Edmure's booming laugh filled the air.

"Direwolves?" He exclaimed, "Did some wildling drop them at Winterfell?"

Ned stiffened, "They were found outside our walls while my sons hunted with the king's men. Ser Mooton encouraged them to bring them back to the castle. It is the reason I was... delayed."

Arya was no longer in her seat.

"Truly, father?" She asked, "How many?"

"Six. One for each of my children."

_Five for the trueborn_ ,  _one for his bastard._ Catelyn Stark's smile seemed to waver.

Ned Stark continued, "They are no playthings. You'll train them yourselves, you'll feed them yourselves and if they die, you'll bury them yourselves. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat."

Edmure laughed, likely in disbelief, and turned to Rhaenys, "Direwolves are roaming the Seven Kingdoms. What wonder will come next?"

"Perhaps a dragon may soon hatch," Rhaenys responded.

Her husband laughed again.

* * *

Dany dreamt of her father that night. It was not a dream which she had often. 

They were in Dragonstone. She could tell by the feel of the stones under her bare feet, by the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves beyond the walls. She was young, she knew from how unsteady her feet were on the ground, from the difficulty she had forming words. A door open and it seemed as though it had flown off its hinges, filling the room with a terrible light, a man standing at the door with cuts on his face and his hair shorn to his scalp. He looked like her and yet not quite; Dany was not so tall, nor was she so thin, or had that brilliant and terrible force in her eyes. She reached for him, as a child reaches for their protector, but he only stood there, silent, violet eyes darting around, hands shaking.  _Where am I,_ he seemed to ask,  _what is happening_  and suddenly he was running. They were in a tower now, spiraling ever upward, and yet no matter how fast Dany ran she could not catch him. Her father emerged at the top and suddenly they were surrounded by men in armor, holding swords and spears. A hand was on her shoulder, pulling her away, and her father was sitting on a ledge, so close to the edge. She reached out for him, thought she could almost feel the fabric of his cloak on his hands, feel his warmth but then he was gone, he had disappeared into the waves. 

Dany woke with a start, gasping for air, and she was again in her room in Starfall. She could hear the sea, but it somehow did not sound quite as ominous here, safe in her bed. Beside her lay Quentyn, fully dressed and sleeping fitfully as well. They had stayed up together; he had held his hands in hers and placed them over her stomach, to where their child grew, as though he could feel the babe’s movements beneath her skin. It was early when they fell asleep, the sun barely dipping beneath the horizon, and it was the first night they had simply slept together since they married, without making love.

She was frightened, she noticed, the sweat thick on her brow, this strange urge to run and hide (run where? Hide from what?) and instinctively, she reached for him, her body moving before the thought had even formed.

Quentyn opened his eyes slowly, rubbing at them as a child might.

“What’s the matter?” He asked.

“Nothing,” She answered instantly.

Before he could object, or move to sit up, Dany curled up on her side, facing her husband. She put her hand on his, even as it shook.

“Are you frightened?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“Me too,” He murmured.

Yet she knew their fear did not spring from the same root.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me through the wait, everyone! There will likely be a time jump in the next chapter. Please let me know what you think, I live off your reviews. I think it's fair to say that, like most authors, I spend the days after posting a new chapter frantically refreshing the page for comments, so when I see one it truly makes my day & gets me pumped to keep writing.
> 
> In terms of the sequence of events, just to clarify, a full blown Robert's Rebellion didn't happen. There were no big battles like in canon, no mass casualties but some skirmishes. There is a lot of distrust however - I am a believer in the theory that the generation of Rickard Stark and Hoster Tully were planning something big with the marriage alliances even before Rhaegar/Lyanna happened, so the animosity from that was compounded. The actual Rebellion, however, didn't occur (which is why everyone got to keep their heads!). I'll go into the details of why it unfolded that way later on, but it has a lot to do with Aerys and Lyanna (who will be making an appearance soon!).


	11. Part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New generations, King's Landing, and Lyanna Stark's arrival

His wife grew prettier as their child grew larger in her belly. Quentyn had been able to see her beauty since the early weeks of their marriage; it was impossible not to, when they shared a bed most nights, when her hands reached out for him under the moonlight, just as hungry as his own. It was strange to think now of their first meeting Sunspear, when he thought her a child. He could see her now as she truly was, as he knew everyone else saw her, the most beautiful woman in the world. 

What went on in her mind, in her moments of quiet contemplation, he still did not know. She was a mystery to him, one that he was not brave enough to attempt to decipher for fear that the harmony they had built would somehow unravel.

Their quiet peace was enough.

They had hurried back from Starfall after the Daynes’ maester had examined Dany, cutting short their tour. He’d left her behind in Sunspear to go see his father in the Water Gardens, as custom dictated the ruling prince be the one to make such announcements. His father had smiled at the news, truly smiled, and held Quentyn’s hand so tightly in his own that he knew it certainly must have pained him. It did not matter however, nothing mattered but the babe that was growing within his wife’s body.

Presents came in soon after, from every corner of Dorne and beyond, from the Riverlands, the Vale, the Westerlands and of course, the finest from the Crownlands and the capital. The king and queen sent a set of miniature horses, some ceramic, some bronzed and the finest plated in gold. From Arianne they’d been given silver rattles, from Prince Aegon a collection of figurines, from Prince Viserys an intricately carved stick-horse. They had all been collected in the nursery, a series of vast rooms that had gone unused following Quentyn’s mother’s departure from Dorne, and it seemed as though _life_ was back in Sunspear.

They no longer shared a bed and the physical distance was hard for him to bear at first. How queer it was, that he had not touched a woman before their marriage, that he could count how many times they’d lain together and yet somehow his absence from her bed rattled him to his core, left him needy and wanting, irritable and prickly as he had never been before. He ended nearly each night taking himself in his hand, thinking of his wife’s face and form, but only felt more worse afterwards, further from satisfaction.

If Dany felt the same way, she gave no indication of it. He did not doubt that she enjoyed lying with him; the thought of it left him hot under his skin, remembering the nights she’d moaned and cried out at his touch, the times she had pulled at his hair and clawed at his skin as though it were not enough to be one, as though she sought to consume him entirely. She feared for the safety of their child perhaps now, or was too bashful to ask him to visit her rooms when the eyes of the court were watching them, knowing that it was no longer expected of them to do so. Regardless, he was too frightened to ask.

Nonetheless, Dany was a lovely sight, her face rounded out, belly stretching out in front of her so that she was forced to walk slowly, leaning heavily on him whenever they walked together. When she felt the babe stirring within her for the first time, she had sent word for him, and he had patiently waited with his hands on her stomach until he could feel the movements.

If that was the price he had to pay, to give up whatever pleasure they found in each other’s bodies in exchange for this simple happiness, of having their hands intertwined, of _feeling_ their child, he would choose to do it tenfold.

They’d lain beside each other afterwards; it was midday, and he had a hundred other things to do but he could not tear himself away though he knew Lady Alyse waited for him in the solar to review accounts and the petitioners would come afterwards. When the babe stopped moving he kept his hands on her belly nonetheless, and they had simply looked at each other, her purple eyes meeting his brown ones.

“I hope he has your eyes,” He found himself saying.

They had never indulged in any type of endearments, even in their most intimate of moments. She’d only ever called him Quentyn, not Quent, just Quentyn and he only ever called her Dany. Everything else died on his lips, every compliment, every sweet nothing he knew lovers whispered to each other as they lay in each other’s arms.

To her credit, his wife did not seem startled to hear it.

“How do you know the child is to be a boy?” She asked, smiling.

“I feel it,” He replied, and meant it, “And we already have too many girls in our family.”

Dany laughed, and it was a beautiful sound.

It was the sound of laughter, the defining feature of those months when she carried their child in her womb. That was how he would always remember it, if the gods willed it and he lived to be an old man, the happiest he had ever been, the happiest his father had been. He had done his duty.

Until the very end, at least.

Her labor pains came in the middle of the night, but no one came to tell him. He’d slept through the night peacefully, guiltily, woken up to the castle turned upside down, laundresses and maids walking back and forth from the kitchens to her rooms, carrying pails of hot water. He’d stood in front of the door, dumbfounded, watching as sheets were carried out, paling at the spots and splashes of blood, trying but simultaneously not wanting to make out the muffled sounds that came from within, the heavy footsteps and the creaking of the bed and what he thought might have been a scream.

Quentyn did not know how long he stood there before he felt a hand on his shoulder, turning to see his uncle at his side, grim-faced and frowning.

“Take a seat, lad, childbirth is not often a quick business,” the Red Viper said.

Quentyn would not let himself be led away, however – he would be there when his child came into the world – and his uncle, as though having read his thoughts, sighed, resigned himself instead to leaning against the wall.

In truth, Quentyn could not the recall the last time he had a conversation with Oberyn. They spoke of petitions, accounts, bannermen, all that came as part of running a household as large as Sunspear, but they spoke little of personal matters, and it was simpler that way. Quentyn doubted his uncle had forgiven him entirely for choosing Lord Yronwood to knight him, and he did not delude himself into thinking he was well-liked by his uncle’s bastard daughters. They would have preferred for him to be bolder, to fill up a room with bluster and think not of the consequences. It was simpler this way; he trusted his uncle and that was enough.

"I recall when we first received word that Elia had taken to the birthing bed. A raven was sent from the capital," Oberyn said, "Neither your father nor I could sleep until we were assured she was safe."

His aunt's labors had left her womb scarred and broken, the entire realm knew of it. Whether no seed could take to her womb now or she was simply too weak to make it through another labor, Quentyn was unsure, but the thought of his wife suffering the same fate left his stomach in knots. He would have preferred to speak of anything else or, better yet, be left entirely alone.

His uncle, however, continued, "You would have married that child, had things gone differently."

"Rhaenys?" Quentyn asked, puzzled. 

For as long as he could remember, even before she had come to Dorne, he knew Dany was his intended. 

"Aye, who else?" His uncle smiled, though something dark lay beneath it, "It was decided between Elia and Doran as soon as you were born and to hear Elia tell it, her husband had agreed. I have heard it told your cousin is a wild thing, Dorne would have suited her."

_How strange_ , Quentyn thought,  _even as my wife lies in the next room bringing our child into the world, a stroke of fate could have her somewhere else entirely._ He knew little of Princess Rhaenys, except that she was beautiful and wed to the heir to Riverrun. 

"It changed with Daenerys' birth?" He asked.

Oberyn scoffed, "It changed long before that. It changed with the prince and his Northern girl. I had wished to bring Rhaenys to Dorne, nonetheless, but we could not remove them from the capital. You might have been a king one day, had the dice fallen differently."

Now it was Quentyn's turn to scoff.

"King? You confuse me, uncle. Rhaenys would never have been queen."

"I always took you for a student of history, like your father," Oberyn responded, "Elia's husband would never have forsaken his son but should he have chosen to set Elia and Rhaenys aside for a new bride, they would have come down on us and we would have bled them in the passes and buried them beneath the blowing sands."

_What was he speaking of?_ Instinctively, Quentyn looked around the hallway to make sure there were no attendants or maids nearby. That action only seemed to amuse his uncle.

He continued, "They would have come, or seen the realm riven once more, as it was before we wed the Targaryens.We needed only hail Rhaenys as the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and lawful heir to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and wait for the dragons to come."

"The lawful heir?"

"She is older than her brother," explained Oberyn, "By law the Iron Throne would have passed to her."

"By  _Dornish_ law."

"When King Daeron wed Princess Myriah and brought us into his kingdom, it was agreed that Dornish law would always rule in Dorne. And Rhaenys would have been in Dorne, as it happens," His uncle explained, with a smirk. 

It was treason, and what would it have accomplished? The crown's forces would have been decimated at the Dornish passes, as well as any ally who tried to come to their aid. What then? The crown would have gone to Rhaenys when it would have just as easily passed to Aegon, even if King Rhaegar had been able to marry his Northern woman. Instead, innocent blood would be shed and thousands would be slaughtered at Dorne's borders.

Revenge, that was all it was, some mad plan to avenge Elia's honor at great cost. Quentyn found himself thanking the gods that his father had been the firstborn, and not his uncle. 

"It does no good to speak of what may have been," Quentyn stated.

"Spoken like the son of Doran," Oberyn said, with a short laugh.

The doors to his wife's chambers opened slowly from inside, and Quentyn thought his legs might buckle under him as a smiling handmaiden emerged, holding a small, wailing bundle in her arms. She approached him slowly, and he found himself standing dumbfounded, unable to move or speak.

"A son, my prince," She said, and suddenly he found himself reaching out and gingerly taking it into his arms. 

His child had a soft tuft of brown hair covering his head and olive skin. It took half a moment but when he opened his eyes, Quentyn found himself looking into violet eyes, shaped like almonds. _Dany's eyes_. He was beautiful.

Quentyn looked up to show his uncle but when he turned, Oberyn was gone.

* * *

Arianne sat at Aegon's side on their cushioned seats arranged at the foot of the Iron Throne, watching the steady stream of people approach the King, sitting high atop them, and once greeted, be led by the Kingsguard off to the side where they joined those who had come before them. She was good at this; her aunt Elia told her that was for the best, that she would have to endure much  _frivolity_ when she became queen and it was better if she learned to enjoy it. It came easily to her, arranging her jewels and clothing just  _so_ each morning, putting thought into every choice, whether it was to braid her hair or leave it loose, to wear silk or linen, look seductive or solemn.  _A court must always be young_ , she'd learned, and she and Aegon strove to make it so. Her betrothed did not enjoy it as much as she did; he understood the importance of dances and tourneys, of wine and song and laughter, but he was not a man who lived for them. 

He hardly indulged in drink outside the presence of his family, did not return the coy looks and suggestive remarks of the young women at court, gave just enough of himself to the please them but held enough back to remain an untouchable, almost inhuman mystery to most. The Aegon who laughed so loudly he sometimes snorted, who was a master horseman and archer, who enjoyed disguising himself and walking among the people of King's Landing was unknown to all but a few. His mother and father had taught him well.

They would be wed soon and Arianne was impatient to learn everything else there was to learn about him, how his body fit into hers, how his skin tasted.  _I will not dishonor you_ , he had vowed, when he was old enough to understand what that meant, and he had kept his word, their explorations of each other ending with chaste kisses. Chastity was expected of them both, though that did not make the wait any easier.

She smiled as members of House Celtigar came forward. They had just arrived in the capital, along with a wave of other houses from the Crownlands.

"House Celtigar has long sworn its fealty to the Targaryen throne, your grace," One of the men was saying, his voice carrying across the noisy hall, "We present this token of our continuing friendship and allegiance to Prince Aegon and Princess Arianne. May their marriage be fruitful."

An attendant stepped forward and took the chest they had brought forth, likely to take it into the solar where the rest of the gifts had been piled up. 

"We thank you, Lord Celtigar," said King Rhaegar, “I welcome you to King’s Landing.”

After all these years, Arianne still often found herself taken aback by his voice. The king was a man not made for this time, she had realized, but rather for some world which perhaps only existed within the Black Walls of Volantis, some secret order that only few were initiated in, where they could be free of the torments of the world. Even at thirty-eight, the king still looked like a young man, save for some lines around the corners of his eyes. There were those who said Aegon resembled him but Arianne could find little traces of it; Aegon was fair-haired and lilac-eyed, and his skin had darkened and freckled as he grew older, taking after his mother. He had the Martells’ almond eyes and heavily hooded eyelashes, and his mother’s features were marked across his face.

Ser Jon Connington walked up to the throne and whispering a few words to Aegon, was answered with a short nod. _He was still in a foul mood_ , Arianne thought, _or else he would not leave in the middle of audiences_. All but the king and queen rose as Aegon descended from the throne, holding out his hand to Arianne and leading her through the heavy, gilded doors to the side of the throne room, leading through narrow hallways before emerging in the godswood.

On either side they were shadowed Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Garlan Tyrell, the most recent addition to the Kingsguard following Gerold Hightower’s death. Ser Garlan had been a fixture at court following his father’s appointment as master of ships, and trained and studied with Aegon often enough to build a fast friendship between the two. It was Aegon who suggested to his father that Ser Garlan be appointed to the Kingsguard; _a knight must be courteous and just as well as loyal and skilled_ , he’d argued, and Rhaegar was inclined to agree. There would be more appointments to think of in the upcoming years, as Ser Jonothor and her great uncle Lewyn’s age advanced.

Once they had reached the edge of the wood where they could overlook the Blackwater Rush, Aegon sent the knights away with a flick of his wrist. It was the only place in the Red Keep he felt was safe enough to speak; there were no stray eyes or ears, their words drowned out by the crashing of the waves.

He sighed, and all in that moment the serene, smiling, princely look was stripped away and he simply looked _tired._

“What should I do, Arianne?” Aegon asked, taking off his silver crown and running his fingers through his hair, massaging his temples where it rested.

It had been this way all week; perhaps it was foolish of her to have expected him to have _recovered_ , though she was not sure what there was for him to recover from precisely.

In truth, it was uncomfortable for them all, though the anticipation had been worse than the incident itself. They had been welcoming members of what seemed like all the houses of Westeros over the past week; a herald would arrive ahead of the party and deliver the information to one of the king’s stewards, who would then stand at the bottom of the throne and alert him as each of them stepped forward. On the sixth day, a procession wielding the black crowned stag sigil of House Baratheon approached and perhaps it was merely Arianne’s imagination, but she thought she could feel Aegon tense at her side. Her smile stained on her face, and she was suddenly and painfully aware of the eyes of the court on them.

Arianne had heard the tales. Lyanna Stark was a young, unhappy wild thing, had grown up without a mother and with a tyrant for a father, betrothed to a man she had never met, who was known to whore and drink; she had fallen in love with Rhaegar, then a young prince, at Harrenhal and in his kindness, he had crowned her, thought to make her happy. It was many moons later that the young girl decided to take her chance, stealing herself away from her family as they travelled to Riverrun for Brandon Stark’s wedding. She was an able rider, disguised as a young boy had reached the Dornish marshes before the prince’s men stumbled upon her as they camped at Summerhall. In the songs, the prince was always the hero, the savior, and the northerners unruly, brash and quick to judgment, taking the Seven Kingdoms to the brink of war.

The songs explained nothing. They were only a balm, meant to sooth tempers and pride, though it healed nothing, explained nothing. In Dorne they told different accounts, of a young prince who was as lecherous as his father, who turned away from his wife and children to chase after a _girl_ , barely flowered. He was treacherous, they said, had thought to take her through Dorne to the Tyrosh, wait until his mad father died before returning for his throne, crowning his new wife in place of Elia.

Arianne knew the truth lay somewhere in between, known only to those who had lived it. Neither stories explained why the prince had returned, why in the midst of the skirmishes and fighting that broke out as lords amassed their forces in anticipation, Lyanna Stark was brought out of the midst of it nearly a year later and married to Robert Baratheon. It was as though some sort of madness had taken the entirety of Westeros, some dream that ceased as quickly as it started.

Lyanna Stark had approached the throne silently at her husband’s side, a broad shouldered, heavy man with a thick, black beard. She was a beautiful woman, with hair as dark and black as Robert’s, but slim, with skin like alabaster and eyes so grey they might almost be made out of ice.

It was Stannis Baratheon, however, who spoke, a man as tall and broad shouldered as his brother but thin, with only a few wisps of black hair and a sharp, hollow face.

“We thank you for your invitation, your grace,” Stannis Baratheon spoke, his voice curt.

Arianne had resisted the urge to turn to look at the king. She only heard his voice; “Welcome to the capital, cousin” and within an instant, the Baratheons were ushered away and the next cluster of lords and ladies was led forward.

Aegon had been shaken by it and it seemed to Arianne as though Elia held herself apart afterwards, though in public she did not waver from her duties. _The past is past_ , she remembered her father telling her before she left Dorne, _your marriage is the consolation for all that we have suffered._ She had to remind Aegon of that.

“There is nothing for you to _do_ , Aegon,” Arianne answered softly, taking his hands in hers, “This matter does not belong on your shoulders. It is burden for others to bare.”

Aegon shook his head, “Robert Baratheon would not even _speak_ to my father, _his king_. Must my father and my mother spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulder, anticipating some rebellion from the Stormlands? Are these the lords we are to contend with when it is our time to sit on the throne?”

“You have the might of Dorne, the Crownlands, and the Riverlands behind you, not to mention the allegiance of the Lannisters and the Tyrells. Should Robert Baratheon or any other man so much as think of treason, you could wage against them a war as fierce as any our ancestors did,” Arianne said, “You _know_ this, Aegon.”

“It is not so simple as that.”

“I understand,” She replied, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, “And I know you understand all you father has done to prevent that. What is it that bothers you, truly?”

Aegon rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling.

“Was it worth it, do you think?” He asked, his voice almost a whisper, “Everything that he did. Was it worth it to leave everything so broken?”

Softly, Arianne pressed her lips against his, comforted when he kissed back, ever so slightly.

“This is a happy time,” Arianne replied, trying her best to smile, “It is the beginning of a new era. We will make it so.”

He may not have been convinced but he leaned in to kiss her once again nonetheless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to stress how much I appreciate reading all of your comments, it makes an immense difference for me as a writer to know that people are engaging with the story and I'm writing it not only for myself. Please take the time to leave a note when you get the chance; I love to see them & it gets me geared up for the next chapter. Thank you all!


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